


if I'm good will you come back?

by TheDandiestLion



Series: I'll fight you both for the rest of my life long days [3]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt/Comfort, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, Multi, Sub Jaskier | Dandelion, Torture, dom Yennefer, no beta we die like witchers, supportive Geralt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-25
Updated: 2020-07-25
Packaged: 2021-03-06 07:40:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25509892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheDandiestLion/pseuds/TheDandiestLion
Summary: After their ordeal, Jaskier and Yennefer were supposed to talk to Geralt about, well, whatever this was. Could be. But then Nilfgaard marched, and Sodden fell, and Cintra burned, and Jaskier would just like to know if his friends are still alive, please.When Nilfgaard shows up for him instead of Yennefer, he knows things are about to get even worse.*Chapter 2 is just smutty OT3 fluff*
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Series: I'll fight you both for the rest of my life long days [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1847908
Comments: 7
Kudos: 161





	1. Give me two damn minutes...

**Author's Note:**

> I recommend reading at least the previous work in the series, "sweet nothings are screamed not spoken," to know what's going on.
> 
> All titles taken from The Amazing Devil's song "Two Minutes."

Jaskier wasn’t enjoying Oxenfurt as much as he’d hoped. 

After he and Yennefer were captured by a rogue mage and escaped, shared an intimate moment and a more intimate talk, they’d planned to talk to Geralt and work out whatever mess of a relationship was between the three of them. But then the forces of Nilfgaard advanced through the northern kingdoms like a wildfire, and Yennefer had had to return to Aretuza. Before she’d left, she’d portalled him directly to the University, with strict orders to keep out of trouble until she came back for him.

That was months ago now, and he hadn’t heard anything from her or Geralt. Most likely they were fine, caught up in Destiny’s web while he was sidelined as a minor character. But as stories reached Oxenfurt of the fall of Sodden, the burning of Cintra, he couldn’t help but worry. He’d thought his long life was a blessing because it meant he could spend it with them, but if they were gone…

He’d hoped he could at least milk his bleak mood for a good heartbreaking song or two, but his inspiration was apparently as shriveled as his heart felt. He couldn’t even write the song about his and Yennefer’s capture; the story felt unfinished, and he would have to wait for the end, whatever it was. He occupied himself with teaching and researching, making use of the University’s extensive libraries, and let composing go for now.

He was in one of the side libraries, books spread out on a study table, when Valdo Marx, Troubadour of Cidaris, bane of his existence and currently his fellow professor, appeared in front of him.

“Julian,” the smarmy bastard cooed at him. “Don’t work yourself too hard now, you’re not as young as you once were. What would the Countess say?”

Jaskier almost asked him which countess, but he really didn’t feel like splitting hairs with Valdo today. He definitely didn’t want to bring either his step-mother or his former lover into it. “Marx,” he said, not looking up from the notes he was making. “Jealous that my breeding has me looking younger than you?”

“Hmm, yes,” the troubadour hummed. “Your breeding.” He was silent for a moment, and Jaskier’s fingers tightened around his quill when the man didn’t continue. Damn him for a dramatic bastard. “You know, I talked to your cousin recently,” Marx finally continued. “He had some interesting speculations about your… breeding.”

Jaskier finally pushed back from the desk, rounding on his fellow professor. “For Goddess’ sake, Valdo. I honestly expected better of you.” He gathered up his writing materials and pushed past the other man, muttering, “I can’t imagine why.”

Marx let him get almost to the door of the library before he spoke up. “Oh, the Headmistress wanted to speak to you, Julian. At your earliest convenience.”

Jaskier paused briefly, then continued forwards. “I will attend her as soon as I’ve put this away.”

He’d always liked this Headmistress. She gave in too often when the other faculty pushed to get their way, but she genuinely cared about the University and the people under her care, generally meeting everyone with a smile and a question about their families or their work. With a few more years experience, if she didn’t burn out, she’d be playing the University power games with the best of them.

She wasn’t smiling when he pushed open the door to her office. Instead she looked pained, and guilty, and Valdo was standing behind her shoulder, smirking. Jaskier felt himself tense.

“I am sorry, Julian,” she said, and sounded like she meant it. “The Empire has made an offer that I cannot refuse, offering us protection and allowing us to continue operating unmolested.”

“An offer,” Jaskier echoed, mind racing, but he already knew where this was going. Even here they’d heard rumors of Cintra’s lost princess, Geralt’s Child of Surprise, and how desperate Nilfgaard was to find her. If they’d managed to connect her to Geralt, it was only a matter of time until they came for his bard.

“I cannot risk the entire University for the sake of any one person,” the headmistress said softly. “I have to think about the people in my care.”

“Of course,” he answered, but his mouth was dry and he felt numbness creeping in. He was glad all his things, including his lute, were safely locked away in his rooms; he just hoped no one would go through them until he got back. 

If he got back.

The door behind his back opened and he heard at least half a dozen soldiers in armor file in. He forced a smile on his face and glanced back over his shoulder. Nilfgaard. That’s what he thought. “I’m not sure what the Emperor’s men could want with a humble bard like myself, but I am happy to comply.”

The greasy man who seemed to be their captain gave the headmistress a rotten smile. “The Emperor thanks you for your assistance, Headmistress. Oxenfurt has his regard and protection.”

The Headmistress gave him a tight-lipped nod. “We are grateful for his patronage.”

Valdo looked like he was positively vibrating with smugness. Jaskier couldn’t help himself. “Good luck, Valdo. Maybe you can finally write one of those award-winning ballads you always talk about while I’m gone. You aren’t getting any younger, you know!” He could feel the troubadour glaring holes in his back as he left, but he savored the satisfaction. He had a feeling he wouldn’t have a lot of good feelings for the foreseeable future.

The soldiers didn’t get rough with him while they were on University grounds, all part of the elaborate game of make-believe that the nobility across the Continent were playing, that Nilfgaard’s invasion was a peaceful exchange of leadership. He’d always admired the way that Queen Calanthe had refused to play into that sort of game, but then it had gotten Cintra burned to the ground, so. That the soldiers weren’t interested enough in the illusion to let Jaskier pack a bag made his stomach churn, but he kept the smile on his face as he was marched away from the campus.

As his hands were finally bound before he was manhandled into a closed carriage, he let the smile drop. “Sorry, Yenn,” he whispered, even though there was no way for her to hear it, even if she was still alive to do so. “I was really looking forward to it.” He felt a little guilty that he hadn’t been able to keep his promise to her, but at least she had broken hers first.

So _apparently_ after telling Jaskier to fuck off on that damned mountain, Geralt had grown a pair and gone to Cintra to get his Child Surprise, and Nilfgaard believed he’d managed to squirrel her away somewhere, and they wanted her back because of creepy cult reasons. Of course the damned witcher only started buying into his Epic Ballad-Worthy Destiny after he’d shaken off the one man on the Continent who could actually do it justice in the re-telling. Jaskier could ask him for details later, but the man was always so damn stingy with the details.

Of course, if Jaskier died here, he wouldn’t really have to worry about that, but still, it seemed a shame that the White Wolf’s official biographer/balladeer wouldn’t be able to compose his greatest tale yet.

Jaskier spat blood out of his mouth and swayed in the chains that were suspending his arms from the ceiling. If he stood on his toes, he could brace his weight, but he’d been here long enough that every muscle in his body felt bruised. Of course, most of his body was also literally bruised because people. Would. Not. Stop. Bloody. Hitting him.

His newest friend fisted a hand in his hair to yank his head back, and Jaskier couldn’t help thinking wistfully of the way Yennefer scratched his scalp when he did something praiseworthy. She’d also bitten the hell out of him and made him cry, but that was a fun kind of pain, not like these lunatic sadists who, despite putting so much effort into trying to make him talk, refused to listen to a word he said.

He rolled his eyes and looked over his shoulder at the soldier. “Look, I’ve told every one of you so far, Geralt told me to piss off months ago and I haven’t seen him since. I honestly thought he’d never have the balls to go back to Cintra after Queen Calanthe kicked him out. I have _no idea_ where he is now, whether he even has this princess you keep talking about, or where they would go if he did.”

He got a blow to the solar plexus for that, from the soldier standing in front of him. He doubled over as much as the chains allowed, wheezing, until the soldier behind him pulled him back up with the grip in his hair. “Seriously?” he demanded. “At least listen to what I’m telling you!”

“Perhaps I’ll listen when you have something to say,” a new voice said from over his shoulder, and his blood ran cold.

The newcomer circled around in front of Jaskier, flicking cold, empty eyes over the bard from head to toe. Fuck, _fuck_ , he was a creepy bastard, and oh, double fuck, he was the bloody Emperor, wasn’t he. Jaskier had heard horror stories, and now he actually believed them. If someone told him this man wanted to carve off his skin and wear it as a suit, Jaskier would thank them for the warning. The man seemed totally empty, except for the cold burn of fanaticism in his eyes.

A sorceress drifted up behind the emperor like a shadow, and Jaskier’s trepidation doubled. Her aura was nothing compared to Yennefer’s, but it was definitely stronger than most mages’ he’d seen, and it had some kind of sickly glow to it. Goosebumps spread across his skin and he felt vaguely nauseous.

The emperor raised an eyebrow. “No smart remarks for me, bard?”

Jaskier swallowed on a dry throat and decided to try honesty. “I don’t know anything, your majesty. I swear it.”

The emperor looked vaguely disappointed. “Well, I suppose we’ll see soon enough, one way or the other.” He gestured for the soldiers to pick up where they’d left off. “Even if you don’t get anything out of him this way, it will soften him up for Fringilla, later,” he said. Jaskier’s eyes darted to the sorceress, and her lip curled in amusement, the same cold flame in her eyes as in her emperor’s.

The sorceress followed the emperor as he left the room, but trailed her gloved fingers across Jaskier’s cheek as she passed. “Soon, little bard, you’ll be mine.” He couldn’t stop his shudder, and she laughed.

Every inch of Jaskier ached. They’d finally let him down from the chains when he’d started blacking out, and locked him in a dark, cold stone cell. Which was a bit overkill, honestly, because there was no way he’d be able to run in his state, even if they’d held the door open for him and waved him through.

He dragged his trembling body to a corner of the cell with a pitiful pile of musty hay and curled into a ball, hiding his aching head in his arms. He let his mind drift back to the cell he’d shared with Yennefer, the way she’d cradled his head in her lap, the way she’d made him feel safe like only Geralt had done before.

Except, well, she actually told him she wanted to keep him safe, that she wanted him around, and that was more than Geralt had ever done. He thought back to her words, after their escape, after she’d made sure the people who’d captured them wouldn’t be able to hurt him anymore. _Would you like it, sweet?_ she’d asked. _Geralt and I both taking care of you?_

He let himself imagine it, in a way he’d been afraid to over the past few months. It had felt too much like tempting Destiny, when he didn’t even know if either of them were alive. But now, with his own death on the horizon, he didn’t feel like denying himself any longer.

He imagined Yennefer’s soft but strong hands on him, fingers running through his hair as she whispered into his ear that he was a sweet thing, so good for them. And he imagined Geralt’s golden gaze, the soft look he sometimes got when he looked at Jaskier, telling him he was important, that he mattered, as a large calloused hand stroked his cheek.

He couldn’t quite make himself believe it, which was hilarious. He’d lied to himself about so much, and now that it could bring him some relief, his mind decided to be realistic. Even if the sorceress and witcher were alive, what would they want with him? The clingy little half-elf bastard who wouldn’t shut up, when they were both so beautiful and powerful and already had each other, tied together by Destiny?

He wondered how long it would take before they even noticed he was gone.

Alone in his little stone cell, Jaskier pressed his hand to his mouth and sobbed.

The next day was another day of torture, which he took with a quiet detachment that he hadn’t had the day before. Every moment they beat him was another moment he wasn’t being questioned by the sorceress, and he was almost grateful. Mostly, however, he couldn’t help himself from turning over his question from the night before. How long would it take for them to notice he was gone? Would they ever?

In the light of day, he knew he was being unfair. Yennefer, at least, wouldn’t just forget about him. And Geralt wouldn’t, either, he admitted, though he might try to make himself through some sort of emotional constipation. It wasn’t their fault that they were caught up in some big, outrageous Destiny. Eventually they would come looking for him again, after they’d gotten Geralt’s Child Surprise somewhere safe. 

He just wasn’t sure how much of him would be left when they did.

They were using a whip on him today. On the one hand, there was a lower risk of broken bones and organ damage than the beatings the day before; on the other, he could feel blood trickling down his back, which meant an increased risk of infection. At least the blows came at a regular pace, which let him drift off into his thoughts, forcing himself into something like the mindspace he entered when some of his more adventurous lovers came at him with riding crops. 

_Geralt’s Child Surprise, the Princess Cirilla_ , he thought as he drifted. He’d performed in Cintra a few times since Pavetta’s betrothal feast, at times when he wasn’t traveling with Geralt. He’d heard the news when Cirilla was born, and when her parents died, and he’d seen her grow up over the years. She seemed sweet, with some of Calanthe’s mischief and without Pavetta’s desperate unhappiness. He knew Geralt would protect her with his life—it was the sort of stupid martyrdom schtick he would get stuck on. And Yennefer would get drawn in, too, he didn’t doubt, with the way the djinn had tied up Destiny between them. Yennefer would like having someone to protect, someone to look up to her. She’d be a good mom, he thought.

The soldiers, apparently bored of his silence, threw a bucket of salt water over his back and he howled. _At least the salt will fight infection_ , he thought muzzily as he shivered in his chains and they decided how they would hurt him next. He didn’t think he’d be able to distract himself any more today, not now that they were getting creative.

They dragged him to see Fringilla that evening, or afternoon, or whenever it was that they’d decided to take a break from the torture. Honestly he was grateful that all his fingers were still intact, even if he was starting to doubt if he’d ever see his beautiful lute again.

As the soldiers dragged him into a posh little sitting room, Jaskier focused on taking deep breaths and sinking into the pain burning across his back. He thought about those adventurous partners with crops, none of whom could take him apart as thoroughly or as quickly as Yennefer, but that had caught on to the same things about him that she had. He didn’t care much for beatings or aches, but the sharp cut of a crop or whip soothed some itch inside his skin. He obviously preferred exploring the sensation with a partner instead of a torturer, but for now he was ignoring the context, desperate for any relief the sensation might bring.

He also knew enough about sorceresses to know that Fringilla was going to be digging into his mind soon, and if all she got was pain, maybe she’d rethink it. Or at least get a taste of what she deserved.

He was shoved to his knees, his hands in shackles behind his back. In front of him the sorceress was reclining casually, wearing a rich black gown and holding a glass of wine. Jaskier had to hold back a slightly hysterical giggle—it was obvious that she was trying so hard to project a certain image, the kind of image that Yennefer presented just by breathing, but she was spectacularly bad at it. He suspected letting her know that would be a horrible idea, however, so he bit his lip and kept his gaze down, sinking back into the pain.

She was still wearing the gloves he’d noticed last time, and he felt the coolness of the leather as she raised his face with a hand under his chin. He knew better to close his eyes, but he didn’t lock gazes with her, either, letting his vision unfocus.

She flinched a bit as she entered his thoughts, and he couldn’t stop a flare of satisfaction. “Cute,” she snapped. “But not as useful as you think.” Her grip tightened, and he felt her boring down deeper into his mind. Then she recoiled again, dropping her hold on him completely. Her hand went to her nose, which was starting to drip blood. “Fucking Yennefer!” she snarled, before grabbing him roughly. “Why did Yennefer of _fucking_ Vengerberg put a ward on your mind, bard? What are you to her?”

He managed to shove any memories of Yennefer deep in his mind, because he would be damned if this witch saw any of it. “I honestly wouldn’t know what to call it,” he said instead, his voice hoarse from screaming. “But if you’ve met her, then you know she doesn’t like other people touching her things.”

Fringilla snarled again and battered at the ward inside Jaskier’s mind until his ears were ringing and blood was flowing steadily down her chin. Finally she gave up and shoved him away, looking at the soldiers standing by the door. “Throw him back in his cell, and carry on with the torture tomorrow. Just don’t kill him. If nothing else, maybe the Witcher or that bitch Yennefer will come looking for him.”

As he was hauled back to his cell, Jaskier couldn’t help feeling a little bit hopeful. He should probably be worried that he was bait to lure his friends into a trap, but to be honest, Geralt and Yennefer treated everything like a trap, and he couldn’t think of anything they wouldn’t be able to power through together. Aside from the weight of their combined emotional constipation and their wreck of a relationship, anyway.

Day Five (at least he was pretty sure): fingers still intact, mind ward still holding, one eye swollen shut, nose probably broken, most other things more or less fucked. He was pretty sure he still had all of his teeth, so that was a plus. He could feel himself burning with fever, and although they’d been giving him enough bread and water to keep him alive, he was fairly certain he was dehydrated, and that he should probably feel hungrier than he did. He was also pissing blood, so they’d probably gotten at least one good shot at his kidneys.

They hadn’t come for him yet this morning, even though they usually hauled him out before he finished waking up. He stayed still, curled up in the moldy straw, his eyes on the door. Maybe they were giving him a day off, to make sure they didn’t actually kill him? Or maybe they were moving on to the isolation/starvation part of the torture itinerary? He’d honestly be pretty grateful for that, at least for the first day or so. Though isolation would probably drive him insane, at least he’d have a little while before then that things wouldn’t hurt as much.

He heard a commotion down the corridor outside his cell, the scuffle of bodies and what may have been the clang of swords. Was it too soon for him to be hallucinating? Though he guessed it may have been the fever. Then he heard that gruff voice that showed up in his favorite dreams.

“Jaskier!”

“Geralt?” he said—or tried to, anyway. His voice barely made a sound. How long had it been since he’d made any sound other than a scream?

He stumbled to his feet, supporting himself against the wall to drag himself closer to the door. He cleared his throat, and tried calling again. “Geralt?” It came out a bit louder this time, hopefully loud enough for those super witcher senses, though it was scarcely louder than a whisper. For once Geralt actually wanted to hear him, and he couldn’t answer. Typical. He sagged against the cell door. It’s not like he’d been able to bathe, other than having some buckets of cold water thrown on him, so maybe Geralt would be able to smell him.

He drifted for a bit, wondered if maybe it was a hallucination after all. Then piercing gold eyes were looking down at him, and he heard Geralt’s heartfelt “Fuck.”

Jaskier hummed and smiled up at Geralt, even as he felt himself sliding to the floor. He heard a flurry of movement, more muffled swearing, and then the door was swinging open, and Geralt was catching him up in his arms. He patted the witcher’s chest. “I forgive you if you are a hallucination, because this is very nice.” At least, that’s what he thought he said, but there was some mumbling, maybe, and his voice still sounded shredded.

Then Geralt was running back down the corridor, Jaskier clutched against his chest. They skidded into a room at the end, where there was a flare of Chaos and a thundering wind, and Jaskier smiled sweetly at his sorceress before he let himself drop into unconsciousness.

Jaskier woke up in a warm, soft bed, but didn’t open his eyes, in case it was a dream. He definitely wanted to stay here as long as possible. Ten out of ten, would hallucinate again. Then the (very large) arm wrapped over his waist squeezed him gently, and his eyes flew open to meet a soft golden gaze.

“I’m sorry I treated you like shit,” Geralt said in his husky voice, and Jaskier felt his mouth drop open.

Yennefer snorted from his other side, shutting his mouth with a soft finger before returning her hand to his hair. “Cirilla has done wonders for his emotional intelligence. Try not to die of shock.” She tugged his hair gently. “You didn’t stay where I left you, Julian.”

He closed his eyes and turned into her grip, dropping a hand to keep Geralt’s arm where it was. “Sorry,” he said, his voice creaking out no louder than a whisper. He cleared his throat, and his next words came out a bit stronger. “Wasn’t given much of a choice.”

Geralt curled himself around Jaskier and dropped a kiss on the top of his head. “Sorry we put you in danger.”

“That’s the risk of being a bard dancing around Destiny’s skirts, I’m afraid,” Jaskier answered. “Not your fault. How is your Child Surprise?”

“She’s safe, and hopefully out of our hair until sometime tomorrow, which is the important thing.” Geralt sounded more at peace than Jaskier had ever heard him. Something had certainly happened.

Jaskier looked up at Yennefer, something inside him quailing a bit. “I am sorry, Yenn,” he said. “I tried to be good.”

She smiled down at him warmly. “I know, sweet thing. You did so well. I’m not angry.”

He closed his eyes, soaking it in, and felt himself start to tremble. He buried his head in the blankets. “Thanks for the mental warding,” he said, his voice muffled. “Pissed off their cheap knock-off witch to hell and back.”

“Goddess, fucking _Fringilla_ ,” Yennefer growled. “She got away this time, but I’ll make her pay for touching what’s mine, I swear.”

“There’s, like, some freaky fucking cult thing going on with her and the emperor,” Jaskier said. “‘S why they want the princess.”

Geralt’s hold on him tightened, and Yennefer stroked his hair. “We know, love. You can tell us all about it later, but for now the princess is safe and we’re taking care of you.”

It hit him then, all of the pain and exhaustion and fear and despair, the torture, sure, but also the months of not knowing if the people he loved were dead or alive. A sob wrenched out of him, and Yennefer slid down the bed so that he was squeezed between her and Geralt, their arms wrapped around him. 

“Sorry, Jas, I’m sorry,” Geralt whispered into his ear, over and over. “Sorry we didn’t come sooner.”

“Don’t apologize for the torture, you ass,” he managed to say through the sobs. “I’d do it again to keep you and the princess safe.” Geralt started to protest, and Jaskier rolled over to look at him, glaring at him through his sniffling and doubtlessly red eyes. “You can apologize for treating me like shit on that mountain, and you can apologize for the _months_ with no word from you, no idea if either of you were even still alive—” A sob interrupted him, and, okay, he was _really_ crying now, no more words for him for a bit.

“I’m sorry, Julian,” Yennefer said. “I should have come for you sooner. But we were both injured and it took time for us to recover, and we had to get Ciri to safety, and I thought you’d be safer in Oxenfurt until we could protect you again.”

“Don’t have to protect me,” he sniffled. “Just wanted you there, to know you were okay.”

“Of course we have to protect you,” Geralt grumbled. “You’re human, you’re fragile.” Jaskier looked over his shoulder at the witcher in disbelief, but Geralt wasn’t done. He met and held Jaskier’s gaze, exuding sincerity. “I am sorry for pushing you away before. I was afraid of losing you. But I don’t want to lose any more of the time we have left—”

Jaskier couldn’t help a hysterical giggle. He turned back to Yennefer. “You didn’t tell him.”

“I thought I should leave it to you,” she said primly. “And he deserved to wallow.”

Geralt’s face was pinched into a scowl. “Jaskier—”

“Geralt,” Jaskier interrupted. “How long have we traveled together?”

The witcher’s scowl softened to a frown as he thought. “Twenty years?” he hazarded.

Jaskier nodded. “Twenty three now, actually. We met when I was eighteen. Geralt.” He took his stupid, stupid witcher’s face into his hands. “Do I look over forty years old to you?” 

Geralt looked panicked, clearly sensing a trap, and he looked to Yennefer for help. Jaskier took pity on him. Without looking away, he asked, “Yenn? How old do I look? Be nice.”

“Not a day over twenty-five,” she purred in his ear, and he swallowed hard. Later. They could do that later. Right now he had to save his witcher from himself.

Geralt was frowning again, so he smiled softly at him. “I’m half elf, Geralt. Not quite as immortal as you and Yennefer, probably, but I’m no human. You can keep me for a long time, yet.”

Geralt’s eyes widened, but before Jaskier could see what true surprise looked like on that implacable face, Geralt was kissing him. Jaskier went boneless, collapsing into Geralt’s embrace with a moan. The witcher rolled them so he was on top of Jaskier, and plundered his mouth until Jaskier was out of breath.

He opened his eyes, dazed, to see that Geralt had pulled back and was glaring at Yennefer, who was sitting up with a hand wrapped in that silver hair. “He needs to breathe, Witcher,” she said, sounding amused. “And be gentle with him, he’s still recovering.” Then before Geralt could do more than grunt, she swooped in to take Jaskier’s mouth for herself. She was every bit as aggressive as Geralt, though she was sly, using finesse instead of Geralt’s brute strength.

When she pulled back, he just sprawled out on the bed below them, panting and staring up at them with some doubtlessly stupid expression on his face. Both of their faces softened at it, whatever it was, and they laid down again, squeezing him between them. As much as he’d love to carry on what they’d started, he was exhausted. He yawned, snuggling down between them, feeling safe and happy and _home_ , before drifting to sleep.

*Chapter 2 is a fluffy, smutty epilogue. Jaskier gets to wear a dress!*


	2. ... And I'll be fine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have some self-indulgence.

“Yennefer!” Geralt called. He was sitting on the bed, waiting for his partners to ‘get ready,’ as he had been for over an hour. “Aren’t you done yet?”

She opened the bedroom door and smirked at him before looking back over her shoulder. “I don’t know. Julian, do you think he’s ready?”

“I certainly hope not,” the bard answered, his voice back to his usual smooth, sweet tones, no longer the ravaged thing it was after they’d rescued him from Nilfgaard. “I’d like to see him a bit gobsmacked.”

Geralt only had time to feel a little nervous before Yennefer walked into the room, pulling Jaskier by the hand behind her. As he laid eyes on his bard, he had the distant thought that Jaskier's wish was surely granted.

Jaskier was wearing a short, frilly gown that barely reached the tops of his thighs, dyed a bright blue that perfectly matched his eyes. The thin lacy straps holding it up accentuated the breadth of his shoulders, and the lacy neckline dipped between his pecs, framing his chest hair. His legs were covered by white stockings that came up over his knees, held up by a matching garter belt. His hair was delightfully tousled like it was after a good fuck, his eyes were lined with make up that made them stand out even more than usual, and his lips were stained a bright red. As a finishing touch, a delicate lace choker wrapped his neck like a collar.

Jaskier was looking down when he walked in, a warm blush across his cheeks, clearly nervous, though goddess only knew why. When Geralt didn’t say anything, he glanced up at him through his lashes, and Geralt thought his heart was going to stop. At his expression, Jaskier’s usual mischievous smile crept across his face, his eyes lighting up.

“I’d call that gobsmacked,” Yennefer said proudly. Geralt managed to tear his eyes away from Jaskier long enough to look at her, and her unholy glee made his pulse start to race. He could tell that Yennefer had _plans_ , and that always made for an unforgettable night.

Jaskier was facedown on the bed, his head between Yennefer’s thighs and his ass in the air, where Geralt was eating him out like his life depended on it. Yennefer was cooing to Jaskier as she guided him where she wanted him, tugging and stroking his hair by turns. “What a good, sweet boy, Julian,” she said, her voice carrying to Geralt easily. “You’re being so good for me, and letting Geralt open you up so nicely. He’s going to get you nice and wet and loose, like the perfect little slut you are, ready for his big cock.” Jaskier’s moan was muffled, but he sounded wrecked, and his cock twitched even though it hadn’t yet been touched.

Yennefer tugged Jaskier up by his hair and turned his face towards Geralt. His face was streaked with tears and glossy with her slick, his makeup smeared, his expression euphoric. “Tell Geralt thank you,” Yennefer purred.

“Th-thank you, Geralt,” Jaskier quavered. 

Yennefer tugged on his hair again. “Be specific, sweet thing. Thank you for what?”

The bard let out a little sob. “Thank you for-for eating me out. To get me loose. For your big cock.”

Geralt wasn’t usually into the whole dirty talk thing—just one of the many kinks that he and Yennefer didn’t line up on. But those words coming from his weeping, blissed out bard had him harder than steel in seconds. He grunted and flicked his eyes to Yennefer—this was her show, and it went better for everyone if they followed her lead.

She smirked. “Got him all loose?” she asked. Geralt grunted again and Jaskier whimpered, twitching. “Alright then, lovely, you’re about to get your treat.” She pulled Jaskier up and tugged him around so his back was against her chest, his stockinged legs splayed out over hers. She spread her knees so he was wide open, then tugged down his gown so she could play with his nipples. He dropped his head back on her shoulder with a whimper, and Geralt watched his blush spread down his neck and chest to disappear beneath the lacy edge of the gown.

“Well, Julian, do you want something from Geralt? You have to ask if you want something, you know.”

Jaskier opened tear-filled eyes and stared imploringly at Geralt. “Geralt,” he whimpered. “Fuck me, please?”

“Such a sweet boy,” Yennefer purred. She glanced at Geralt, giving him permission, before biting down on Jaskier’s ear.

Geralt swooped in, claiming Jaskier’s mouth in a messy kiss, before hiking his legs up over his arms and plunging into him. Jaskier cried out, singing so sweetly for them, as Yennefer continued to nip him and tug on his nipples and Geralt picked up a strong rhythm, fucking him deep and slow. 

Yennefer looked at their bard critically, then gestured to Geralt. “Tip his hips back just a bit more…”

Geralt complied, and Jaskier’s cries doubled in volume. She hummed, pleased. “Found your good spot, sweet thing.”

Geralt fucked Jaskier until he came, untouched, and then came again. Finally, when Jaskier was incapable of forming words and looked like he was about to pass out, Geralt came himself.

“That was excellently choreographed, don’t pretend like it wasn’t,” Yennefer drawled, wiping Jaskier’s face clean with a damp cloth.

“I am absolutely not arguing with that,” Jaskier answered, flailing a hand weakly in emphasis. “I’m just wondering if three people count as an orgy. Wouldn’t it just be a threesome?”

Geralt, who was in the kitchen slicing fruit and pouring juice, grunted as he listed to them through the open door. These idiots, he swore. But they were his idiots.

With a small smile on his lips, he carried their tray of snacks back into the bedroom. They would need the energy for round two, though there wasn’t any hurry. They had the rest of their lives.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If Yennefer can wear her BDSM dresses in the show, Jaskier can wear a baby doll and thigh highs.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed!


End file.
